


Fall

by rageprufrock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-16
Updated: 2009-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 11:59:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ann Arbor got the memo it was fall about a week ago, and ever since the entire towns been going fucking nuts over it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fall

**Author's Note:**

> Before anybody asks, they are in Ann Arbor because they win the apocalypse and everybody legalizes gay marriage and they own a big house with a porch and everybody is happy. Yay!

Ann Arbor got the memo it was fall about a week ago, and ever since the entire town's been going fucking nuts over it.

There're turkeys in store windows reminding Dean he's only got 46 days until Thanksgiving and all the coffee shops in the city are selling pumpkin spice coffees, cinnamon sweet and dark, pumpkin cakes and scones and pumpkin flavored cheesecake muffins Castiel falls in love with in a way that makes Dean kind of feel insecure.

It's pretty much the definition of stupid to be jealous of a fucking pastry, but Cas gets up earlier in the morning so he has time to get one before work and then sometimes comes home late with crumbs on his mouth. "You're fucking insane, Dean," Sam tells him, when Dean calls and casually complains about it only not at all; "It feels like he's got lipstick on his collar, you asshole!" Dean shouts back, at which point Sam usually hangs up. What a douchebag. You forgive a guy for unleashing fucking Lucifer and then you drive him back to California so he can finish his law degree and what do you get? -- lip. Just fucking endless lip.

And Dean considers himself, all things even, a pretty mellow, patient guy, but when Castiel comes home late -- again -- looking bright eyed and caffeinated and smelling like nutmeg, Dean says, "All right, that's it," and tackles him in the living room.

"Aren't you getting too old for this?" Castiel asks, sounding breathless. It's been almost a year now, but there're still things he's getting used to about being human: about getting tired, about being hurt, about having a cold and having to wear gloves. Dean's happy to teach him all of it, like he's happy to straddle Cas's hips now and wrap Cas's tie around his first once, twice.

"I'm like a teenager compared to you, man," Dean laughs at him, gravelly. "Cradle robber."

Cas smiles up at him, lacking in any coyness. It's probably Dean's favorite thing about him, the thing that scares him the most, that Castiel is so honest in everything he does, in how he answers the front door and types up files and thanks people for helping them bag fucking groceries and loves Dean; it's terrifying and huge and fills up all the empty space in any room, across entire horizons, like Raphael's wings had looked, a flutter of feathers blocking out the sun.

"Coincidentally," Castiel says. "I learned a new word today."

Dean applies himself to opening Cas's belt with his free hand, attacking the button and zip of his trousers. "Yeah?" he asks. Dean's life is apparently meant to be lousy with nerds, so of course Castiel collects stupid human facts like Sam collects secondhand copies of Little House on the Prairie books.

Cas smirks. "Twink," he says, voice crisp on the hard k sound, and while Dean is gaping at him, his cock digging into Cas's hip, Castiel asks, "I'm told it applies to you somewhat, no?"

Dean makes a helpless, choking noise. "I -- I," he says.

"I saw it on the internet," Castiel reports, and totally fucking takes advantage of the fact that Dean has to plot some murders and shit to sit up, to shove Dean down onto their soft, faded living room rug and close his wrists over Dean's, spread out over him like he still had his wings, blanketing and possessive. "They wrote a lot about your mouth, too."

"I -- who's writing about my fucking mouth?" Dean manages, but then Castiel leans in, and bypasses a kiss straight into a bite, hot and sharp and wet on Dean's collar bone, where his shirt is opened. And then Cas's teeth scrape the concave of Dean's throat, over the line of his jaw, then back down again, and Dean lets him, because his hands are busy -- clutching at Cas's back, the hot, familiar sweep of his shoulders, stroking down his sides, jerking his pants down his hips.

And when Cas finally does look up, he already looks wrecked, his eyes bright and his mouth red and slick, and he bites at Dean's bottom lip -- once, just to mark his place -- and pulls away, fingers slipping Dean's button-fly jeans open easy enough to make Dean feel sort of like a slut, and whispers, "Girls on the Morethanbrothers.net site."

"Fuck," Dean mutters, because he's asked Castiel over and over again to stop reading incest porn about him and Sam but it never works, and anyway he's too busy lifting his hips so Cas can jerk his jeans the rest of the way down. "God damn pervert girls."

Castiel just laughs at him, kisses Dean again, licks his palm and and starts jerking at Dean's dick, rough and hot as he says, "Yes, foolish of them to imagine you doing lewd things."

"You know what?" Dean says through gritted teeth, reaching down into Cas's pants to grope at his cock. "You talk too much."

Castiel just looks at him, adoring, lustful, jealous, and rasps, "They're right, though, about your mouth," and kisses Dean savagely.

It's easy to forget sometimes that Castiel was a soldier for a thousand of Dean's lifetimes, that he razed villages and fought demons and raged against the gates of hell for longer than the idea of Dean existed, but it's easy to remember that when Cas kisses him like this: all teeth and tongue and desperation -- and entire universe of sins inside the moment Cas is still just exploring, and he attacks it recklessly. Castiel's taken shit from heaven and hell and probably worst of all, Dean Winchester, and it's so, so fucking good to know that out of all the things in Dean's life, it's Castiel -- who he needs to keep -- that's utterly fucking unbreakable.

He's merciless, jerks Dean too-fast through his first orgasm, and while Dean's still gasping like a fish for oxygen he feels Cas pulling his jeans down further, two cum-slicked fingers pressing into him.

Dean just lets his thighs fall open, kicks the denim off of his legs so Castiel can slide in between his knees, so that two fingers can turn into three. He used to be embarrassed about this, how much he likes this, the weight of his own renegade angel pinning him down, but it's so stupid not to be grateful for this, the way their bodies fit together, so Dean just jerks Castiel down for another kiss so that when Cas's dick slides into him -- in one, two, three short jerks -- he has to swallow Dean's moan when the soft head of it rubs right over Dean's prostate.

"All beautiful you are," Castiel whispers, into the curve of Dean's neck -- not because he's embarrassed, the way Dean sometimes whispers things into the skin of Castiel's shoulder -- but because he means it as a secret, as something just for Dean, "there is no flaw in you," and Dean just catches his mouth at the next available opportunity, and drinks up the rest of Song of Solomon 4 like it's wine, melting across his tongue.

And by then Dean's just intoxicated on this, on this thing between them, that stirred up the heavenly hosts and dragged him out of hell, and he listens to Castiel gasp his name like it's a benediction, listens to the wet drag of their skin, the creak of the floor. He feels Cas hot and greedy on him, in him, filling up all of his empty spaces; he feels the handprint Cas left on him, and the place where Cas wrote on him, in the bone, marked him and protected him and made Dean's his to keep, and Dean just says, "Cas," and comes, like morning rolling over a hill, warm and sweet and dizzying.

"His mouth is sweetness itself," Cas manages, and Dean can feel his dick twitching, jerking himself out inside of Dean, another mark, and when he stops shaking, finally, he adds, "He is altogether lovely -- this is my lover, this my friend."

Which is just sappy as fucking hell, but Dean endures it, lets Cas sprawl over his chest and cards his hair through Castiel's hair and kisses him on the temple, sweet, proprietary, revels in the ache in his back and the stretch of his thighs.

"You done reciting poetry?" Dean asks him, and Cas turns his head where it rests on Dean's chest, just enough to look meaningfully at Dean's mouth.

"For now," Castiel says.

He punctuates the thought with a kiss, and Dean savors it: Castiel's simple and unadorned devotion and that God damn pumpkin spice. If Dean was that sort of guy, he might think that Cas tastes like fall, like the Earth pouring out all of its good things, like trees going fire red.

"Come on," Cas says, when Dean breaks away for air. He's smiling again. "I brought you a muffin."

Fuck. Cas is going to bankrupt them at Starbucks, but Dean just laughs and says, "Okay, okay," and gets up.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [First Smoke](https://archiveofourown.org/works/967100) by [liquorish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquorish/pseuds/liquorish)




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